


thanks for the distraction, space pirates!

by HappinessIsBlau



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Y'all I just don't know anymore, because typing his name is admitting i wanna bone him, gratuitous use of pronouns for jamie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappinessIsBlau/pseuds/HappinessIsBlau
Summary: When you’d seen holos of people wearing kilts, you didn’t get the impression that someone would be able to move so well in one or pull it off, but he did.





	thanks for the distraction, space pirates!

**Author's Note:**

> AFAB femme reader and no pronouns, cis dude Jamie with he/him pronouns. Reader wears lipstick.
> 
> Oh, and I should mention that this was very lightly researched and honestly made up on the spot. I did more research into whether Scotsfolx really don't wear anything under their kilts and the history of circumcision in Scotland than like, any canon stuff.
> 
> \--
> 
> What's up, y'all? I can't explain this one except, like, fuck. BIG fuck, fuck me, specifically, holy shit. It's just been one of those manic weeks where the only thing you can do is think about how well Frazer Hines wore that kilt, y'know? 
> 
> The only excuse is that sometimes I want to read a specific fic but it doesn't exist so I have to write it for myself. Feel free to bring any errors to my attention, and thanks to my dear friend, harkydarky, for being a wonderful and validating bean when I wrote this in a rush last night and when I tried to fix it into something cohesive this evening.

The only reason you took a job on this space freighter is because you needed money to go back to University, and making money is damn difficult. The job summary failed to mention that the reason it paid relatively well compared to other freighter helmsperson jobs was because the path would be through dangerous space, infested with pirates. By the time you realized your error, there was only one fellow worker left unkidnapped and your Captain was hauled off to God-Knows-Where on the ship. The other crew member, Mx. Lucas, seemed to know where but they were shaking with such terror that even if you wanted to know you wouldn't have been able to pry it from them. 

About the same time that the pirates carried off Captain Whoever-the-Hell, a great big blue box appeared out of nowhere and three white folks came tumbling out of it. 

Well, no wonder. It seemed kinda cramped if they all had to be shut in there. 

After Mx. Lucas calmed down enough to give the oldest one of the group the rundown about how they and you were the only ones left other than the Captain, the three looked at each other in sympathy and offered their assistance.

Well, as if you had a choice in the matter.

So the older one, introducing themselves as "The Doctor and Happy To Help", asked Mx. Lucas to show them where the Captain had been taken. Mx. Lucas said sure which was a suspicious and surprising change of heart, and the Doctor told the femme one of his friends (Zoe, apparently) to come along and help and the masculine one to stay on the bridge with you in case of any trouble.

Well, that’d been ten minutes ago. The ship was a big-ass freighter indeed, and they were apparently on their way to the complete other side of the ship which would take quite a while. You’d run out of things to do with the helm so you'd started asking questions to the stranger.

It wasn’t everyday that you saw someone wear something so traditional. You hadn’t noticed that it was a kilt at first, thinking it was just a really offensively patterned skirt, but your three credit class in Ancient Earth European History had finally come in handy. The masculine person answered that his name was Jamie, he used he and him pronouns (after you had asked and then explained what pronouns were), and that he was from Scotland, like, the original Scotland, and they were time travelers. Woah.

While he was talking, you couldn’t help but notice the way his arms were toned in just the right way, how his chest was complimented by the tight shirt he wore, and how nice his legs looked. When you’d seen holos of people wearing kilts, you didn’t get the impression that someone would be able to move so well in one or pull it off, but he did. His accent was charming and boyish. He had a baby face but with some real nice masculine tendencies that made your heart do little somersaults. 

“Well,” you said when he’d finished describing some of the rolling hills and blue skies and whatnot, “they won’t be to where they're going for a while. We could always, y’know, pass the time,” and hoped that he’d pick up the hint.

“Aye, I s’pose you’re right, but with what? I can’t hope you have a deck of cards ‘round here somewhere, can I?”

You weren’t sure what a deck of cards was but somehow you felt your meaning was missed, or maybe he just wasn't interested and twas trying to politely decline. That was okay, but you wanted to be sure that your intentions were understood before you gave up.

“No, I mean to say, I think we’re biologically compatible. Human anatomy hasn’t changed that much in the past four million years, you know. Would you care for a round of vigorous sex?”

He looked completely dumbfounded at that, as if he hadn’t heard what you said properly even when you clarified. But you could see him eye you up, from the tips of your boots to the top of your head, and then he frowned with a lot more nervousness than you thought.

“I - I mean, what if we’re caught? What if trouble starts?”

“Then we stop,” you tell him, and he seems to think it over. You flush in anticipation. 

“Unless you don’t want to,” you quickly amend, “because if you’re not interested, that’s fine, don’t feel pressured, I just figured -” 

“No, no, I just - I don’t - I don’t have much experience ‘s all,” his voice lowers to a half-whisper and oh, that’s so sweet and endlessly endearing. You're surprised by that, actually. A cutie like him hasn't been propositioned even though he's been traveling in space and time for what sounds like a good while?

“I’m a good teacher,” you tell him, and you can nearly see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he nods. 

So you usher him into one of the crappy helmsperson chairs and straddle his lap. He’s so warm and giving underneath you and it’s quite nice, actually, to have a person to sit on rather than the shitty plastic and vinyl that was wrecking your spine. The color of his kilt is vibrant against your khaki work pants. 

You haven’t even done anything yet other than sit on him and he’s already nervous and half-hard and wow, youth is a hell of a thing.

“How old’re you?” You ask him, thinking this might have been a better question like two minutes ago. He thinks about it for a minute and says, “23, I think,” and that’s good enough for you.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask, and he seems to be a little more comfortable with that, so you press your lips against one of his tall cheekbones and he leans into it. Your lipstick leaves a nice rouge print against his cheek and that's a bit more satisfying than you'd like to admit. 

You pepper kisses across his cheeks and his nose, hoping that you can leave as many kiss prints as he has freckles but knowing that you’ll fail in that endeavor doesn’t disappoint you or stop your efforts.

Finally, you reach his lips, and he gasps a little when you finally press yours against his. Your tongue slides across his bottom lip and he opens his mouth obediently, and when you nudge his tongue with yours you hear his fingers grip the vinyl seat cover below you. 

You can feel that he’s hard and the way you're seated on his lap has his dick trapped between your bodies. It's pressing against your tummy and you're pleased and flattered in equal measure. 

“Can I touch you?” you ask, leaving room for him to say no, and again he nods in confirmation so you reach carefully between you to touch him, still separated from his skin by fabric, and he lets out a very shaky sigh.

“Is it okay if I-?” and he cuts you off with a impatient "uh-uh" in confirmation so you wiggle the fabric that you’re sitting on out from under you and politely fold up his kilt.

Ah, well, that thing about Scots and kilts is true. You’re certainly not disappointed.

“Oh, pretty,” you hear yourself saying out loud and that’s actually the most embarrassing thing you've ever said in your life about anything ever. 

“Wh-what?” he asks with audible strain in his voice, and you’re charmed. Oops.

“No, I mean, it’s lovely. You’re - you’re lovely, Jamie,” you tell him, and he flushes even darker and looks away, biting his lip.

So you move off of his lap and crouch between his legs, taking him in your hand and sliding up and down with gentle strokes. 

Your other hand you set on his knee, rubbing circles against it with your thumb in what you hope is a comforting manner, and you hear the sound of the vinyl seat cover groan in protest again because he’s squeezing it so hard. 

You’ve quite nearly hypnotized yourself with your hand sliding up and down his dick; the way his foreskin moves at the upwards strokes, the choked moans he’s giving you in response, and you kiss against the tip just moments before he cums, spilling hotly down your fingers.

The mantra in your head of “how lovely, how lovely,” seems to be falling from your lips without your permission, and you lick his cum off your fingers and he watches, enthralled and admired and amazed with you.

That’s good for the ego. The telltale sign of your hard work, the red lipstick print against the tip of his dick, is oddly erotic. 

“Thanks,” he manages finally, and his hesitance is obviously because he's not sure quite what to say and you beam at him.

“Thank _you_,” you tell him, and you straddle him again, carefully so as not to disturb his sensitive flesh, and sling your arms over his shoulders, purposefully holding your hand away from him to be polite. 

“Can I - can I do something for you?” he asks hopefully and you’re so perfectly delighted that you’re not sure you can say no, not that you’d want to.

“Well, I mean, I - if you really want to,” you tell him, and he nods, a bit more sure of himself, and you don’t feel so lecherous with how he responds with such affirmation. 

You withdraw from him again to undo your belt and slide down your pants and underwear and he watches with open interest. You guess that he normally wouldn’t but “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” isn’t a sentiment that’s been lost yet to humanity.

Well, due to your clothes, you can't just hide quickly like he could. The other side of the helm would be enough cover that, if needbe, you could have precious extra seconds to untangle yourselves if you get unwelcome visitors while in flagrante delicto. 

So you waddle ungracefully with your pants half-down and he sits down on the floor, his back flush to the other side of the cool metal helm. You hesitate, trying to figure out how best to do what you're setting out to do, and kick your pants off the rest of the way. You sit down so your back is pressed against his front. His legs are splayed and so that allows you to make yourself comfortable, and you open your thighs. You pull his left hand across your body and he lets you put you where you want him which is quite nice, actually.

“Here,” you guide, bending his fingers as you want them and pressing them against you, his thumb against your clit and two fingers ready at your entrance. You move his hand back in forth in a rhythm, the rhythm that you like, and then, having shown him the basics (which he grasps quickly and with the most mild of blushing and stammering), allow him to continue on his own. 

This is, shamefully, how you play with yourself, so it feels so much extra naughty when he obliges you so willingly. You can feel his heart beating fast against your back, his chest rising and falling with his quick breathing and his breath is in your ear and stirring your hair as he moves his fingers just like you taught him moments ago.

You continue to guide his hand, making adjustments and asking for it “Faster, Jamie, please?” and he is incredibly enthusiastic in doing just that.

It isn’t long until he gets the idea more and pushes his fingers inside you, carefully, and you moan his name when you cum against them, squeezing around them, and you feel him grow hard against your back. 

Oh, that’s wonderful. 

You put your hand against his, keeping his fingers there until your vaginal muscles finally stop moving against his fingers, and then you move his wrist when you want his fingers gone (well, not that you do, but y’know). When you bring his pruney fingers to your mouth and suck them, you hear him gasp quietly and you feel the shiver he gets.

“You’re wicked,” he says, a bit in awe, and you can’t contain your snort of amusement. 

“D’you maybe wanna fuck now?” you ask, pulling away from him again to face him and he blinks and opens his mouth to speak as if he’s forgotten that that’s what you asked him for in the first place.

You’re about to ask him if he’s okay, if he wants to stop because of course he doesn’t have to, but then he answers with a quiet yes, setting his wet hand carefully on one outstretched knee. 

“Okay, let me show you,” you tell him and lean over him again, pulling on his legs to signal him to bring them together (he does, of course) and then straddling his lap with your legs awkwardly while still sitting above him. You lift up his kilt and hold him steady as you position yourself over him.

He’s watching with rapt attention as you sink down onto him and he gasps, not trying to hold it back now.

He curses quietly and you continue your slow descent, letting your hands find his shoulders, and then when he’s in you to hilt you look at his face.

His eyes are distant and lovely and his pupils are blown. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, you realize, because he’s got his palms pressed flat against the floor and his arms are shaking. You patiently take one of his wrists and your touch snaps him half-back to reality. You place his hand on your hip and his other mirrors automatically to your other hip, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull up, slowly, trying to allow him to get time to get used to the feeling of being inside you.

You remember the feeling of him in your hand and the reality of the situation hits you, hard, and you can’t keep yourself from acting on your frantic need for something, so you busy your mouth with kissing as much of him as you possibly can. Jamie looks, at this point, like he lost a fight with a tube of lipstick. He doesn’t say anything about it if he minds, though.

He’s too distracted with your hips picking up rhythm against him, grinding and rutting because you really can’t help it, and then collecting yourself to slide up and impale yourself back down on him quickly but that doesn’t really allow you to kiss his face like you want to so you go back to desperate grinding which is heaven against your clit. 

Another bonus: this allows you to suck a bruise against his jaw and bite gently down his throat and give him hickeys across his collar bone that are already blossoming bright, angry purple. 

He doesn’t seem to mind the roughness either, he just says something in a language you don’t understand and tightens his fingers against your hips and his dull nails bite into your skin just a little with the pressure his fingertips are putting on you.

“I’m - I’m so close,” he manages to whisper, and you run your fingers through his unruly hair and hear yourself tell him to go ahead, it’s okay to cum inside you, you really don’t mind, don’t worry, and so he does.

You cum quickly after him and it hits you hard. You say his name like a prayer, again and again and again, and press your forehead against his neck, quite nearly sobbing against him with how lost you are for a moment. He brings his hands flat against your back in concern and pulls you back carefully to look at you. You blink rapidly, coming back into yourself. He's panting, slowly catching his breath.

"Are - are you alright?" he asks quietly and it's your turn to answer with a nod. Your thighs and hips burn from the work that they did and a peek down at your sides show ten lovely little crescent moons where his nails did indeed dig into your skin and broke it.

He doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he touches where you bit him on his jaw and winces.

“You play rough, don’t you?” 

Yeah, you do.

With one last kiss on the tip of his nose, you move off of him and right yourself, pulling your pants back up and doing your belt and unmussing your hair. Good timing, too, because just then the Doctor and Zoe burst back into the room, saying something about Mx. Lucas being a double agent for the pirates and how they were almost lured into a trap.

They haven’t looked directly at Jamie yet (they’re much to busy debriefing each other) to notice his lipstick-covered face, so you walk to the wall and pull out a few hygienic wipes from the dispenser. He thanks you and wipes his face with one, glancing at it, and then shooting you a look before scrubbing at the lipstick on his face. You’re a bit sad to see all that lipstick go but your fingers tingle when you see the extent of the hickeys you gave him and he unconsciously does up another button in his shirt collar (but oh, you can still see the purple galaxy blooming if you know where to look). 

The Doctor gives an offhand comment about how, “Oh, the two of you must have been so bored up here,” and it makes you grin conspiratorially at Jamie and he stutters and clears his throat, pulling on the hem of his kilt.


End file.
